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DELIVERED AT COMMENCEMENT OF THE CLASS OF 1856, 



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CANTABir VACUUS CORAM LATRONE YUTOR, 



By JOSEPH HODGSON, Je. 



OF FLUVANNA, VA. 



SARATOGA SPRINGS ; 
SHARP & COREY, PRINTERS. 

18 5 6. 






AD 

GULIELMUM B. HODGSON, 

SAV. GA. 

HOC POEMA, PAEVUM TESTIMONIUM 
AMORTS, DBDICATUM EST 

AB AUCTORE. 



^* fcife is earuet^t—'Life iscreal."-- Lonc;f3i.i,o«. 



As kneeling low, around the chancel staii', 
In mutt'rings solemn as the distant roar 
Of moaning breakers, on some rock-bound shore, 

The dark-cowled monks repeat their wonted prayer ; 

11. 

While (ieep-toned organs thrill the massive pile, 
And marble floors reflect the evening rays, 
Which light the altar by their fitful blaze, 

And throw their Iris l^eams along the aisle ; 

III. 

While fretted dome with joyful anthem rings. 
Half stifled sobs, with oft-repeated prayer, 
Oj' mournful hymns float on the incensed air 

An humble tribute to the King of Kings : 



IV. 

Without the portal of that Grothic fane, [wave, 

Where hurrying crowds roll on their ceaseless 

Kneel friendless poor around some moss-grown 
grave. 
Or lisfning sadly to the muflled strain , 



V. 

No ear to hearken, but the Blest's above ; 

No eye to shed the sympathizing tear ; [near 
No pure-veiled Nun, with half-told beads, came 

To weep for those whom Christ on earth could love. 

VI. 

And can they grieve at fortune's bitter rule ? 
And will no pallid, pulseless face gleam bright 
At thought of sorrows gone, and crime made light. 

And hearts washed pure, within Bethesda's pool ? 

VII. 
Life's troubled waters ever dash, and beat. 

And roll their murm'ring billows to the grave ; 

Earth's sick and starving kneel beside the wave; 
And praying, list for healing angels' feet. 

VIII. 

Above the altar, where the sunbeam falls 
And lights the alcove by its radiance mild. 
Look down the Virgin and the heavenly Child ; 

Madonna smiling from the sacred walls. 

IX. 

Without, upon the damp and chilly stone^ 
Her soul elated by a new found joy. 
Kneels a poor mother with her starving boy ; 

Magdalen weeping for her mortal son. 



The mouk avIio worships in sequestered cell 
And times liis matins by tlie tolling bell, 
Who begs from God a list'niug ear once more, 
Then spurns the trembling beggar from his door — 
The limner list'ning for the ocean swell. 
The miisic rising from the Paphian shell; 
Who views the canvas beaming with his thought, 
And praises self for what his hands have wrought — 
The hero crimsoned by the crimes of years, 
Who wades to glory through a sea of tears. 
Who builds a splendid fane of dead men's bones, 
And hears sweet music in a nation's groans — 
All madly grasp a poisonous Upas wreath, 
Which decks, but decking, l)urns the brow beneath. 
False j^riests ! they ever watch the ark of God, 
And hope, vain hope ! to view a blooming rod ; 
They seek to ])luck from richly laden trees 
The golden apples of JJysperides ; 
They launch their barks upon life's troubled stream. 
And think that man was only made to dream ; 
They gaze at shadows o'er the vessel's side. 
And clutch but bubbles floatinfr on the tide. 



The world is not a spar-hung hermit cell. 
Where man must ever listen to the knell 
Of broken hearts, and hope for penance given 
To gain an entrance to a longed-for heaven. 
'Tis no Alhambra with its sparkling jets. 
Its languid beauties, with their castanets. 
Where dancino^ Silva with some gallant Mars 
Keeps graceful step to Castile's soft guitars. 



''Tis no (j^v\m Venice with its prison bars, 
Where massive portals close with clanging jars, 
Where heavy silence l^roods in palace halls 
And dark green ivy clings to crumbling walls, 
Where standing on some moss-grown Bridge of 

Sighs 
Some Byron hears the distant murmurs rise, 
Proud Adria moaning with its rising tide 
The long-lost tribute of the Doge's bride-, 
Where Tasso's song no more delights the ear 
Or cheers the heart of some gay Gondolier. 
'Tis no dark convent, where on bended knees, 
Man prays and sorrows, like fair Eloise. 
'Tis no dark home, where lamp-lit Cynic dwells ; 
No false Pagoda with its tinkling bells. 
Life is no dream ; man no Protean elf, 
Who misanthropic, cloaks his form in self, 
Who paints Dorados in the realms of Truth, 
And bathes in fountains of perpetual youth ; 
Who gilds all clouds which flit across his dream, 
And views Narcissus in each limpid stream. 



Some poet Timon wand'ring on the shor6. 
Self-ruined, listens to the distant roar : 
His dark eye brightens as the storm comes nigh. 
His heart rekindles as the waves rise high 
And dash their fury 'gainst the flinty rock ; 
Yon heedless city feels the deadly shock, 
With mighty crash the reeling walls o'erthrown 
Resound with shout and cry and dying groan ; 
He stands enthralled ; hears not the piteous shriek 
But in the whirlwind hears the storm God speak. 



Some Nero vested with Iskander's power, 
Would stand like Homer on old Ilium's tower: 
No Hindoo widow moaning on the pyre 
With zealous hand applies consuming fire ; 
The blood-stained Vestal of that ghastly fane 
lie sees Ms God and sings his lasting reign. 
Some Curtius mounted on his neighing steed 
To save his land, would spur with deadly speed, 
And plunging headlong in the jaws of death, 
Breathes forth his praises with his fleeting l^reath. 
God passed by ; not in that raging storm ; 
Appeared not, fearful, in that flaming form ; 
He spoke not, loudly, in fair Nature's groan 
When reeling earth sent forth its muttVing tone ; 
He talks, not now, in Sinai's thund'ring noise, 
But Nature whispers in that still, small voice. 



When erst the morning stars their anthems sung, 
And list'ning earth and heaven's high arch-way rung 
With choir angelic, seraphs gathered round 
And joyful listened to the swelling sound. 
When dying groans rose from the cursed tree 
And ano-els saw our sinful world made free. 
When glorious day dispelled that darksome night 
Heaven clapped its hands and blessed the glad- 
some sight. 
The same sweet music from celestial bands ; 
Memnons which breathe above life's Lybiau sands 
Gushes in joyous anthems, swelling high, 
When man for brother man would die. 
When self is lost, and noble deeds impart 
Pure love, the music of a manly heart. 



The l)ird of Eden tries in vain to sing, 
Or stop the ceaseless motion of its wing ; 
The bending branches of the bitter fir, 
When drooping low, distils most fragrant myrrh. 
The world is real ; Life no dreamy hour 
For man to sigh for fair Utopia's bower ; 
God's l)onnteons works which lasting praises give, 
Cry out, '' 'Tis not the whole of life to live." 

Virginia's son whose beaming eye shot fire, 
Who, sweet-toned Nestor ! struck fair Freedom's 

lyre. 
Who made a youthful nation /(^e? the tone 
That thrilled the centre of old England's throne, 
And while proud Albion caught the rebel sound 
Shook thirteen jewels from her star-decked crown. 
'Tis such a man who gains an honored name, 
And wins the wreath in life's Olympic game. 
HoAvards who pray within the prison wall. 
On them the Laurel and the Cypress fall — 
Who love the world and for mankind can feel ; 
Some Everett pleading for his country's weal. 

Those were the real heroes of the world 
Wlio nobly fought for truth, with flag unfurled ; 
With banners streaming to the winds of heaven. 
On whose silvery surface stood engraven 
In brighter letters than those words of yore 
Which gleamed in warning from the temple dopr ; 
And thus, bright gemmed, the glowing motto ran — 
Fight on foe Teuth, foe Life is but a span. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
016 112 652 4 ^ 



